Ah, gracious God! 
Do with us what thou wilt, thou glorious heart! 
Thou art the God of them that grow, no less
Than them that are; and so we trust in thee
For what we shall be, and in what we are.

Yet in the frequent pauses of the light,
When fell the drizzling thaw, or flaky snow;
Or when the heaped-up ocean of still foam
Reposed upon the tranced earth, breathing low;
His soul was like a frozen lake beneath
The clear blue heaven, reflecting it so dim
That he could scarce believe there was a heaven;
And feared that beauty might be but a toy
Invented by himself in happier moods. 
“For,” said he, “if my mind can dim the fair,
Why should it not enhance the fairness too?”
But then the poor mind lay itself all dim,
And ruffled with the outer restlessness
Of striving death and life.  And a tired man
May drop his eyelids on the visible world,
To whom no dreams, when fancy flieth free,
Will bring the sunny excellence of day;
Nor will his utmost force increase his sight. 
’Tis easy to destroy, not so to make. 
No keen invention lays the strata deep
Of ancient histories; or sweeps the sea
With purple shadows and blue breezes’ tracks,
Or rosy memories of the down-gone sun. 
And if God means no beauty in these shows,
But drops them, helpless shadows, from his sun,
Ah me, my heart! thou needst another God. 
Oh! lack and doubt and fear can only come
Because of plenty, confidence, and love: 
Without the mountain there were no abyss. 
Our spirits, inward cast upon themselves,
Because the delicate ether, which doth make
The mediator with the outer world,
Is troubled and confused with stormy pain;
Not glad, because confined to shuttered rooms,
Which let the sound of slanting rain be heard,
But show no sparkling sunlight on the drops,
Or ancient rainbow dawning in the west;—­
Cast on themselves, I say, nor finding there
The thing they need, because God has not come,
And, claiming all their Human his Divine,
Revealed himself in all their inward parts,
Go wandering up and down a dreary house. 
Thus reasoned he.  Yet up and down the house
He wandered moaning.  Till his soul and frame,
In painful rest compelled, full oft lay still,
And suffered only.  Then all suddenly
A light would break from forth an inward well—­
God shone within him, and the sun arose. 
And to its windows went the soul and looked:—­
Lo! o’er the bosom of the outspread earth
Flowed the first waves of sunrise, rippling on.

Much gathered he of patient faith from off
These gloomy heaths, this land of mountains dark,
By moonlight only, like the sorcerer’s weeds;
As testify these written lines of his
Found on his table, when his empty chair
Stood by the wall, with yet a history
Clinging around it for the old man’s eyes.